


Come Fly With Me

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superstar singer Changmin has a problem. Enter celebrity guru Yunho, who just <i>loves</i> solving problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Fly With Me

“We’ve found a solution to your problem,” Tae Goo announces as he strides into the apartment, a glossy magazine rolled up beneath one arm and a sheaf of print-outs in his hand.

Changmin looks up from his game console and scowls. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Yes, yes,” his manager says in soothing tones, “it’s more of an _issue_ rather than an actual problem, I know. But anyway, after discussing it with senior management, we think we’ve found a cure.”

“You think you’ve found a cure or you know you have?” Changmin exits the game and flings the handset to the other side of the couch. He fixes his gaze on Tae Goo and narrows his eyes. “You came in here stating a certainty, and just now you introduced doubt. Please be consistent.”

Tae Goo sighs. “Why must you be so prickly? We’re only trying to help. Your prob—er, _issue_ is starting to cause major concern now you’re one of our most popular singers. The issue interferes with your schedules, and everything else we’ve tried hasn’t worked—”

“I know that,” Changmin interrupts, a tight ball of tension forming in his belly. “You think I like it? I’d give anything to be free of it. To feel normal.”

“It’s not just about you feeling normal,” Tae Goo says, frowning. “Mainly it’s about the company’s image. Have you seen this?” He shoves the print-outs beneath Changmin’s nose.

Changmin flicks through them. They show images and text downloaded from various fan sites both official and unofficial; pictures of him at the airport from the past ten days with commentary on his appearance and demeanour. He snorts, reads aloud some of the highlighted comments: “ _Poor Changminnie looks drunk_ —that’s because I was. _He looks stoned_ —not quite, though that would’ve made those incredibly tedious interviews more fun; I was only doped up on sleeping pills...” He glances at his manager. “So what?”

Tae Goo shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. “So the fans have been making the same sort of comments for the past few months now, and a couple of stories have run on gossip sites that you have a problem—sorry, an _issue_ —and you’ve turned to chemical assistance. Fortunately the majority of fans seem to think you’re nursing a broken heart and so far they’ve been magnanimous with their forgiveness and support, but all the same, we can’t have one of our star artists looking like he’s drunk or drugged-up.”

Changmin crumples the print-outs and tosses them onto the coffee table. “So it’s okay for me to be both of those things as long as I don’t look like I am?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Tae Goo passes him the games console and sinks down onto the far end of the couch. “Why are you so difficult?”

“I’m not difficult.” Changmin scrubs a hand through his hair, resentment building. “Look, I know as well as you do that the alcohol and sleeping pills combination is not the answer. Besides the fact that it’s ruining my precious image, it barely works and I’m hung-over for hours afterwards and it’s not particularly healthy.” He tucks the games console down the back of the sofa cushion and glowers at his manager. “So if you think you’ve found a cure, tell me. But not if it involves psychiatrists, psychologists, crystals, homeopathy, behavioural therapy, blood therapy, hypnotherapy or any other kind of therapy, because I’ve tried the lot and I’m not doing it again.”

“It’s none of those.” Tae Goo pulls the magazine from beneath his arm and drops it in Changmin’s lap. “This is your cure.”

Changmin looks down. On the cover of the magazine is a picture of a man with a kittenish face and a smile that could be the dictionary definition of ‘heart-warming’. He has bronze highlights in his hair and he’s wearing a suit jacket and a pair of jeans and not much else, and he’s lolling in a meadow of wildflowers with the sun beaming down upon him. _Jung Yunho_ , blares the typeface, _Guru to the Stars! Read his top tips for finding happiness!_

“No.” Changmin pushes the magazine off his knee. “No way. I saw this guy on some late-night talk show and he’s....” _Sexy_ , Changmin’s libido prompts him, unhelpfully. _Really hot_. “A weirdo who smiles a lot,” Changmin says aloud. “I am not having some celebrity weirdo messing with my head.”

“Guru, not weirdo,” Tae Goo corrects. “Jung Yunho is very highly recommended. He’s successfully treated thirty-eight celebrities in the past six months alone. And several celebrity dogs. I mean dogs owned by celebrities, not dogs that are celebrities. And one celebrity goldfish.”

Changmin wrinkles his nose. “Goldfish? How did he cure a goldfish? And what kind of stress could a goldfish have, anyway?”

Tae Goo shrugs. “The hell I know. You can ask him yourself. He’ll be here in,” he consults his watch, “five minutes.”

“I said no!” Changmin jumps to his feet. The magazine slides onto the floor, cover side up. “I don’t care if he’s cured giraffes of vertigo and polar bears of their fear of snow, he’s still a shrink and I’m sick of shrinks, I’ve seen thirteen of them—”

“Fourteen,” Tae Goo says.

“ _Fourteen_ of them since I joined the company, and none of them have helped me and nothing has ever worked!” Changmin boots the magazine beneath the couch and slumps down again, his chest tight and a film of angry tears swimming in his vision.

Silence follows his outburst. Tae Goo pulls at a loose thread on his jacket. Changmin curls up in the corner of the sofa and hugs a cushion.

The doorbell rings. Neither of them makes a move.

Tae Goo exhales. “The goldfish belongs to the President of the company. Yunho cured the President’s agoraphobia at the same time. The President says he’s a miracle worker. If he can’t cure you...” There’s an awkward pause, then Tae Goo continues, “Please try to cooperate. This could be your last chance.”

Changmin looks up, bewildered. “Last chance?”

Tae Goo won’t meet his gaze. “If we can’t find a cure, we’re going to have to limit your activities.”

Realisation shatters over him like a ton of bricks. “I see.” Changmin hugs the cushion tighter, putting dents in it. How ridiculous this is, all his years of hard work undone by a stupid phobia. He buries his face in his hands as the doorbell rings again. “I’ll try,” he says, speaking through his fingers. “I promise I’ll try. Now let him in.”

*

Changmin starts regretting his promise as soon as Yunho bounces into the room. Every other shrink he’s seen wore suits or casual clothing in sober, calming colours. Yunho is wearing a pair of jeans with so many rips it’s astonishing that it still holds together, teamed with a _really_ tight t-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s practically see-through, and over that he’s wearing an unbuttoned shirt in violent shades of purple and orange. That’s not even mentioning the fact that his toenails are painted electric blue.

“Hello!” Yunho has a smile that lights the entire room.

“Um,” says Changmin, still distracted by the blue-painted toenails.

“Thank you for making the time for us in your very hectic schedule,” Tae Goo says, bowing a lot. “We anticipate your assistance and are very grateful for any advice.”

“Oh, not at all.” Yunho keeps on smiling as if he really wants to be here. He looks past Tae Goo at Changmin and his smile goes supernova. “Oh, Shim Changmin, I would love to help you! My little sister adores you.” He goes a bit pink.

“Uh,” Changmin says. “Your toenails. Why?”

The question dims the brilliance of Yunho’s smile only marginally. He blinks. “Why not?”

Tae Goo is making frantic ‘shut up’ motions, but Changmin can’t seem to stop himself. “But they’re _blue_.”

“I ran out of green.” Yunho points the toes of his right foot and admires the polish. “I don’t know, I think it suits me. Electric blue is so dynamic.”

Changmin makes a garbled noise and sinks down behind the cushion.

“So, you’re afraid of flying,” Yunho says after a moment of resounding silence. “It’s a very common problem.”

“The uncommon part is where he doesn’t respond to any of the usual solutions,” Tae Goo says as if Changmin isn’t there. “We’ve consulted the best doctors and therapists in three different countries. He even underwent ritual purification at a temple in case a spirit attachment was causing the problem. But nothing has any effect. As soon as he gets on a plane, he freaks out and it takes at least three of us to sit on him, otherwise he’d probably run mad and attack the pilot or open the doors and kill everyone on board.”

Changmin starts back at the anger in Tae Goo’s voice. “It’s that bad?”

Tae Goo looks at him with a long-suffering expression. “You have no idea. Usually you’re worse because you’re drunk and doped-up on tranquilisers, so not only are you freaking out, you’re also stoned.”

“Ah,” says Yunho. “That explains all those comments on every airport picture and fancam I’ve seen recently.” He looks at the sofa. “May I sit down?”

“Go ahead,” Tae Goo says before Changmin can reply.

“Perhaps you’d tell me in more detail about previous attempts at treatment,” Yunho says. He takes off his ugly shirt and drops it onto the coffee table before making himself comfortable on the opposite end of the couch.

Changmin tries not to stare at Yunho’s chest. He fails. It’s a really nice chest. “Um,” he says, cursing his incoherence, “I mean, what’s the point? Nothing ever worked before. And I really don’t want to go through more therapy where you blame my mother for my fear of flying, or you say it’s because I had a deprived childhood and didn’t set foot on a plane until I was thirteen and therefore it’s all to do with teenage sexual repression, or it’s because my father smacked me when I was seven because I put a frog in the kimchi pot because I thought it looked hungry.”

Yunho snorts. He slides along the sofa and puts a hand to Changmin’s cheek, tipping his face towards him. Changmin freezes at the contact. Yunho studies him for a long moment, then makes a small purring noise in the back of his throat and says, “Your fear of flying is because you were a breech birth.”

“ _What_?”

“You were a very active baby in the womb. Very wriggly, very restless,” Yunho says. “But when it mattered, you were a breech birth, and that means you like keeping your feet on the ground.”

Changmin pulls away. “That’s the most deranged thing I’ve ever heard.” He can still feel the warmth of Yunho’s fingers against his skin. He resists the urge to wipe at his cheek. “You’re just making stuff up.”

“Am I?” Yunho leans against the back of the couch, one hand shoved through his scruffed hair. The sleeve of his t-shirt pulls tight around his bicep. It’s a really nice bicep.

Changmin swallows. He wishes Yunho’s t-shirt wasn’t quite so tight. Or so see-through. He looks away. “So what if I was born breech. I bet lots of people are. I bet they don’t have issues with flying.”

Yunho makes an amused sound. “Breech babies grow up to be incredibly stubborn adults.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Changmin says, ignoring the stifled laughter from Tae Goo. “I’m logical. Rational. Sensible. Prudent. Grounded.”

Yunho nods. “You keep your feet on the floor.”

“Yes.”

“ _Ergo_ , you’re afraid of flying,” Yunho finishes with a contented smile.

Changmin grits his teeth as he remembers how he agreed to cooperate with this lunatic. He reminds himself that he’s a professional. He’s made adjustments and sacrifices his whole career. He can do this. For the sake of his future, he can absolutely do this.

Besides, despite the fact that he’s a weirdo with terrible dress-sense, Yunho is definitely easy on the eye.

“Okay,” Changmin says. “Okay, I’m afraid of flying because I was a breech birth. Can you cure me?”

Yunho’s smile widens and his eyes sparkle. “I don’t have the power to send you back into your mother’s womb just so you’ll turn and be born head-first.”

“Obviously not.” Changmin curls his hands into fists beneath the cushion and revises his former opinion, instead deciding that Yunho is a dick. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Yunho shifts even closer until Changmin’s feet are pressed against Yunho’s thigh, and Changmin stares at the gaping rips in the denim and thinks how hard and muscled that thigh is, and how he wants to curl his feet into Yunho’s lap, and then he wonders what the hell he’s thinking, and he looks up and Yunho is gazing at him, calm and amused, and it’s like he can read Changmin’s mind and—

“What,” Changmin blurts out. “No. Uh, I mean, how will you...”

“I can cure you. I have every confidence in that,” Yunho says, glancing over at Tae Goo to include him in the conversation. “But as with all deep-seated phobias, it’ll be a while before a complete cure can take effect. I’ll use a variety of methods and we’ll work on this issue one step at a time at a pace that’s comfortable for you.” He throws Changmin a dazzling smile.

“That’s great,” Tae Goo says, not bothering to hide his relief. “But can you not make the pace too comfortable, because Changmin’s schedule is non-negotiable and we need to get him to events in Japan, Hong Kong, and Taiwan before the end of the month.”

“Fine.” Yunho keeps his gaze on Changmin. “But I can only work as fast as my client allows. If he doesn’t trust me, if he doesn’t let me in...”

Heat climbs to Changmin’s cheeks. He looks away, retrieving his games console from the back of the sofa cushion. “I’ll work hard.” Ugh, his response is just as much of a double-entendre as what Yunho just said. Changmin clears his throat and randomly pushes at buttons on the handset. “I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all I ask.” Yunho’s voice is soft, as if he genuinely cares.

Changmin won’t look at him. He bites his lip and pretends to be absorbed in his game. He’s aware of Yunho’s scrutiny, and then Yunho slides off the couch and retrieves his shirt. Changmin glances up, watching the flex of muscles as Yunho squirms his way back into the horrible garment.

“Thank you for taking him on,” Tae Goo says. “The President is so grateful.”

“I’m happy to be of service,” Yunho says, and sounds like he means it. “Let’s go over our schedules. I’d like to get started tomorrow.”

“That would be perfect.” Tae Goo gets out his planner.

“Tomorrow?” Changmin echoes. “Tomorrow I’m doing that photo-shoot all day.”

“No problem.” Yunho gives him another blinding smile. “You won’t even notice I’m there.”

*

Usually Changmin enjoys modelling. He enjoys wearing a succession of expensive outfits, enjoys the idea of putting on a persona attached to those clothes and then being able to discard it. Usually, despite the long hours and the waiting around, he looks forward to this kind of photo-shoot.

Usually he doesn’t have an overly bright, cheerful, enthusiastic _person_ —he refuses to use the word ‘guru’—watching his every move.

Ever since they arrived at the location for the shoot, Yunho’s spent most of his time chattering to the crew, signing autographs, taking selcas, and dishing out the kind of romantic and lifestyle advice that makes Changmin roll his eyes... and yet despite these distractions, Yunho has managed to keep Changmin in his sights pretty much all day.

Changmin knows he should be accustomed to scrutiny, but this is different. There’s something about the way Yunho looks at him that makes Changmin feel fluttery and anxious and a tiny bit excited. He buries the fluttery excitement, the anxiety rising instead, and with it comes his temper. He glares at Yunho, who’s wearing another pair of jeans he must have picked up at a jumble sale and another tight white t-shirt that has FCUK written on it in bold black letters. Every time Changmin looks at the t-shirt he thinks it says something else, and it keeps on flustering him. He doesn’t like feeling flustered, especially not when he’s standing around in his underwear and a robe that’s far too short for him.

“So,” he snaps halfway through the day, “this is your cure? You’re going to stare the phobia out of me?”

Yunho smiles. “Why are you so self-conscious?”

Changmin flicks him an irritated glance. “Why don’t you answer that yourself? I’m sure it was rhetorical.”

Yunho tilts his head and chuckles, the sound soft and low. “Since you asked... you’re self-conscious because you’re beautiful.”

That was not the response Changmin was expecting. It throws him even more off-balance. His heart does a stupid little bounding thing, and then he swallows and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he looks at Yunho and says, “You think I’m beautiful?”

“It makes you unsure of yourself, too,” Yunho continues. “You’re very shy. It’s endearing, actually. So many beautiful people are shy and they over-compensate by becoming assholes.”

“Um,” Changmin says, thinking about his own behaviour.

The stylist comes over. She looks harassed, phone glued to her ear. She hands Changmin a silk shirt and rattles through the nearby clothes rail until she jabs a finger at a suit. Still listening to her phone call, she pulls a cravat from a selection looped around her neck and shoves it at Yunho. “Make yourself useful,” she says, “and fix that for him. No, not you,” she barks down the phone and stalks off, talking at speed.

Changmin pulls the suit from its hanger and lets his robe drop. He’s done this a dozen times already today and it didn’t bother him that Yunho was watching—okay, maybe it did a little—but after the ‘you’re beautiful’ comment, Changmin finds himself just the tiniest bit aroused. The more he tries not to think about Yunho’s remark, the more arousing it gets, until he has to turn around to put on the trousers and he thinks of boring or horrible things like quadratic equations and roadkill until his libido simmers down.

He pulls on the shirt, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings, and then Yunho is standing right in front of him. “Allow me,” Yunho says, and Changmin is so startled that he lets him button the shirt. Yunho’s fingers brush against his belly, and Changmin sucks in, the reaction automatic and instinctive.

“Silly,” Yunho murmurs. “You’re perfect.”

Changmin feels his ears burn. He shouldn’t be this receptive to compliments. Especially not compliments from sexy weirdos. Gurus. Whatever. He casts around for something to say as Yunho moves closer and drapes the cravat around his neck. “Uh,” he blurts, “how did you cure the President’s goldfish?”

Yunho glances at him, one eyebrow raised. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.” Changmin pauses, realises that sounded rude. “Sorry. I’m bad at small talk. I asked because I really want to know.”

“Well...” Yunho makes quick work of the knot, drawing the length of silk around and through into something intricate and elegant. He tightens it gently until it rests in a flourish of perfection around Changmin’s throat, and then he says, “I bought a new fish.”

“You—” Changmin stares at him in horror. “A new fish?”

“Same shape, same colour.” Yunho steps back, surveys the knot on the cravat and nods his satisfaction. “That’s the advantage of goldfish. You can find substitutes.”

“But,” Changmin says, “but... what was wrong with the old goldfish? Why couldn’t you cure it?”

“Because it was dead.” Yunho’s eyebrows flash up and down in amusement and he lays a finger across his lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but the President never cleaned the tank. The poor fish died of neglect. So I cleaned out the weed and replaced the water and put a filter in and some of that coloured gravel and one of those treasure chests that pop open—the President liked that—and a new fish, and all is well. And,” he adds as if it’s an afterthought, “I told the President that if he wanted to keep his fish healthy and content, he needed to buy it treats every week, and he had to go to the pet shop himself to pick them out.”

“That’s how you cured his agoraphobia?” Changmin doesn’t know if he’s appalled or impressed.

Yunho nods again. “That’s partly how I cured his agoraphobia.”

Changmin feels too hot, sweat streaking down his back beneath the expensive clothes. He loosens the cravat just a little. Clears his throat. “I don’t have a goldfish.”

“That’s okay.” Yunho’s smile is as mysterious as it is aggravating. “There are other ways into your psyche.”

*

One week later, Changmin is sitting on his couch with a cushion in his lap while Tae Goo checks his emails in a corner of the room. Yunho perches on the edge of the sofa and moves his forefinger back and forth a few inches from Changmin’s face.

Changmin keeps his head still and follows the movement of Yunho’s finger with his gaze. “What are you doing?”

“I’m testing how susceptible you are,” Yunho says.

“You mean gullible.”

“Susceptible.” Yunho’s fingertip comes to rest on the tilt of Changmin’s nose. “It’s not a bad thing. It means you have a great deal of imagination and an unfulfilled yearning.”

“Unfulfilled yearning for what?” Changmin asks, going cross-eyed as he stares at Yunho’s finger.

“You tell me.” Yunho lifts his hand away. “Tae Goo tells me you’ve tried hypnosis before.”

“It never worked. It just made me sleepy and bad-tempered.” Changmin rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s nervous about Yunho hypnotising him.

Yunho gives him an easy smile. “That’s because you were holding back.”

“I didn’t trust the therapists,” Changmin says with more force than he intended.

“No,” Yunho says, “you didn’t trust yourself.”

Changmin stares at him. “You know, your ability to talk shit is only matched by your abysmal dress sense.”

Yunho doesn’t look at all offended. “And your ability to ignore the obvious and engage in denial is exactly what I’d expect from a breech birth.”

“Not that again!” Changmin waves an arm and knocks the cushion onto the floor.

“It’s true. I know these things,” Yunho says. “You should believe me. I’m related to Carl Jung.”

Changmin spends exactly six seconds absorbing this frankly preposterous claim. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Yunho agrees. “None of my relatives are Swiss.”

Changmin covers his face with his hands and despairs. “Why are you even allowed out on the streets?”

“So I can come here and help you.”

“No,” Changmin moans, flopping back against the arm of the couch. “God, please, no. Don’t help me. You’ll make me crazy like you.”

Yunho picks up the cushion and puts it back in Changmin’s lap. “I promise I won’t.”

Changmin clings to the cushion and gives him a beady look. “So what’s the plan for today? When are you actually going to start the treatment?”

“I’ve already started.” Yunho gets up from the couch and stretches. His t-shirt rides up, giving Changmin a flash of sexy muscled flesh.

“What,” Changmin says, dragging his gaze from Yunho’s midriff and glancing over at Tae Goo, who’s typing something on his phone, “so all that following me around last week and staring at my ass—I saw you, don’t try to deny it—that was part of the cure?” He snorts and thumps at the cushion. “Sucks to be you, huh.”

Yunho doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. His grin is pure sunshine. “You have a really great ass.”

“Thanks.” Changmin pokes his fingers into the cushion, squishing it. He wonders if this is the part where he should confess, too: _You have a really nice chest. And really nice biceps. Also, your thighs are so nice I kind of want to rub myself against them._ But it wouldn’t be professional to say any of that, so Changmin keeps quiet and prods at the cushion some more.

“Anyway,” Yunho says, pitching his voice a little louder, presumably for Tae Goo’s benefit, “we’ll try a session of hypnosis to see if there’s anything else that’s bothering you, any other problems—”

“Issues,” Changmin corrects him. “I don’t have problems. The only phobia I have is fear of flying. I’m quite well-adjusted, really. And it’s only the take-off and landing that really traumatise me. The bit in the middle is... Well, I don’t know, because I’m usually drunk and stoned so I don’t actually remember the bit in the middle.”

Yunho stands over him, thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. He looks at Changmin with interest. “Take-off and landing are the most vulnerable times of any flight.”

“Don’t you mean ‘dangerous’?” Changmin shudders. “Take-off and landing is when everything can go wrong.”

“No,” says Yunho softly, “I mean vulnerable.”

Changmin scrunches down onto the couch. “Yes, well. Whatever. I don’t like it.” He glances up as a thought comes to mind. “This hypnosis won’t be anything like past-life regression, will it?”

Yunho raises one eyebrow. “The basic procedure is similar, but no, we won’t go into past lives.”

“Good,” Changmin says, relaxing. “There was one therapist I saw who insisted I had terribly traumatic past lives. He said my fear of flying was because I’d died so many violent deaths. Usually by falling out of windows or being thrown from a great height.”

Yunho tuts. “Ridiculous. And anyway, you have a young soul. Past-life regression is only truly useful for those of us who’ve been around for a long time.”

Changmin feels oddly vexed by this pronouncement. “I’m a young soul?”

“Uh-huh. Only six generations, I’d say.” Yunho beams at him.

“That’s...” Changmin pauses, tries to work it out. “That’s still quite old.” He pauses again, eyes Yunho with suspicion. “I suppose you’re a _really_ old soul.”

“Oh, yes,” Yunho says cheerfully. “I’m Babylonian.”

Changmin doesn’t know what that means except it sounds talkative, and that seems to fit. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Yunho echoes, smiling. “So, get comfortable and relax. No, I said _relax_. Let your shoulders go. Stop frowning. And unclench your jaw. And your fingers. And everything else.” He tuts. “Is it really that hard for you to relax?”

“Yes,” Changmin says before he realises this is the wrong answer. “No. I’m relaxed. Honestly.”

Yunho makes a noise of disbelief and goes to sit in an armchair. “Close your eyes,” he says, his voice soft and steady and commanding, and then he starts on some nonsensical spiel about lying in a meadow and looking up at the clouds, and though Changmin wants to laugh at how ridiculous it sounds, it also feels safe and gentle and warm. It’s so much nicer than the last time he was obliged to try this, when the therapist had made him listen to whale music. He lies in the meadow and watches the clouds billow and stream, and then the sky turns dark and he’s looking at the stars, and he follows Yunho’s voice through the heavens and it’s just lovely, so many stars, and he’s a star, and then—

“Hey,” says Yunho, and Changmin opens his eyes and he’s sitting on the couch and Yunho is leaning over him.

“Hey yourself,” Changmin says, and kisses him. Yunho’s mouth is hot and he tastes of caramel macchiato, which is kind of weird but Changmin decides to let it go. He squirms about on the sofa, pressing up against Yunho, spreading his legs so Yunho can rest between his thighs. That feels delicious, all solid strength and warmth, and a bolt of lust makes Changmin whimper. He ramps his hips up and grinds against Yunho, his breath coming faster and his head spinning with need.

“Oh, really,” Yunho says, voice dark as sin. “So _that’s_ what you want.”

“Yes, please.” Changmin yanks up his own t-shirt, wanting to get naked as soon as possible. Belatedly he remembers where they are and who else is in the room, and he makes a desperate attempt to regain control. “I really don’t think we should be doing this,” he half gasps, half moans into Yunho’s mouth. “Tae Goo is sitting right over there.”

“He can’t see anything,” Yunho says, nibbling his way down Changmin’s throat. “He’s too busy playing Angry Birds.”

“Even so, this is—this is...” Changmin gropes for an appropriate word.

“Hot,” Yunho suggests. “Sexy. Addictive.”

“Yes,” Changmin says. “Yes, yes.”

“We should do it again,” Yunho says. “We should do it all the time.”

“God, yes.” Changmin is burning up. He pants for breath as Yunho insinuates a hand down the front of his jeans. “Fuck,” Changmin says, hips bucking, thrusting into Yunho’s tight grip. “Please tell me you don’t do this to all your clients.”

“I don’t,” Yunho says, his fingers squeezing and releasing in a way that’s guaranteed to drive Changmin insane. “I’m not actually doing it to you.”

Changmin tries to focus. “What?”

“This is your subconscious talking,” Yunho explains. “This is just a manifestation of what you truly desire.”

“I want my subconscious to fuck me?” Changmin whimpers. “Oh shit, I am so screwed-up.”

Yunho bites down on the juncture between Changmin’s neck and shoulder. “No, no, you want _me_ to fuck you. You’re just projecting your subconscious onto me. It’s simple enough, Changminnie. I’m your Shadow. A kind of archetype. A Jungian archetype.”

Changmin groans helplessly, the need for release tightening every muscle in his body. “How can you make such lame jokes when we’re doing this?”

“It’s not me. Your subconscious is making lame jokes.” Yunho jerks him off, bringing Changmin closer and closer. “I’m sitting right over there watching you come.”

“Oh fuck,” Changmin says, and his hips arch and he rises and rises against Yunho’s hand, his orgasm swift and violent and incredibly welcome.

“...two... one... And you’re awake, you’re wide awake,” Yunho coos.

Changmin sits up with a start, his heart pounding and his body flushed with the after-effects of climax. Yunho is sitting cross-legged in the armchair on the other side of the room. Tae Goo is frowning at the screen of his phone.

“What,” Changmin says. “What the...” He stops, aware of the patch of sticky warmth in his lap. Thank God he’s wearing black jeans so no one can see the telltale leavings of his orgasm. A blush fires through him, and he pulls the dislodged cushion back into his lap to conceal the bulge of his still semi-erect cock.

Yunho looks at him. “Was that illuminating?”

Changmin doesn’t know how to respond. “Uh.” Cringing inwardly, he glances at his manager. “Did I—did I say anything?”

Tae Goo lifts his head from his phone and frowns. “Not really. You just made a few weird noises and thrashed about a bit like you were having a bad dream.”

“A bad dream. Yes.” Changmin grabs onto that explanation with relief. “Yes, that must have been it. I can’t remember anything, actually.” He risks a peep at Yunho and feels the blush spread. “I guess it didn’t work. I don’t have anything else on my mind.”

“No,” says Yunho with an enigmatic smile. “I guess you don’t.”

*

Panpipe music wafts through the aeroplane speakers, the dulcet tones doing little to relieve Changmin’s tension. He likes panpipes as much as he likes whale music. His shoulders are hunched up around his ears, the muscles in his back set rigid. His teeth are gritted and his fingers are like atrophied claws around his knees. He has not one but two headaches, one banging at his temples, the other climbing his spinal column with every intention of exploding into a migraine.

The plane is filling up with passengers. The cabin crew move amongst them, helping with the overhead lockers, guiding people to their seats. Laughter and conversation flow around him. Changmin stifles a sob of terror and sits even straighter in his seat. Sickness blooms inside him, nausea rising and falling like a wave. He tries to focus on his breathing and wishes he had a bottle of tranquilisers and a litre of vodka to wash them down.

Through the haze of his fear, Changmin feels irrationally angry with Yunho. Except maybe it’s not irrational and maybe it’s not just anger; in fact, he’s _furious_ that Yunho dawdled his way through the airport concourse, smiling and waving and stopping to sign copies of his new book _Jungian Archetypes_ —yes, Changmin thinks savagely, _of course_ his book would have _that_ as its title, and _of course_ Yunho gave him a signed copy last week, and _of course_ he didn’t actually _read_ it, no, he’d just jacked off multiple times over the incredibly sexy picture of the author on the dust jacket—and anyway, that’s not why he’s so angry; he’s upset because he’s on a plane and he’s shit-scared and _where_ is Yunho—

“Hi.” Yunho plops down into the first class seat beside him and lifts the armrest out of his way. “Sorry, I just had to attend to something.”

“Your fans, no doubt,” Changmin snarls. He hates being so needy, but this is an extreme situation and under such circumstances he can surely be forgiven for getting a little pissy. “You made me get on the plane on my own, you _know_ I hate it, you _said_ you’d be with me, and you wouldn’t even let Tae Goo come with me, as if boarding an empty aeroplane _on my own_ will make a difference, it’s still a plane, it’ll still take off and we won’t be on the ground anymore and that’s so _wrong_ , I don’t care about the physics, big metal tubes with wings attached shouldn’t be able to fly and what if the engines all catch fire at once and what if we crash into the sea, oh my God we’ll be _eaten by sharks_ or we’ll die in a massive fireball and oh fuck I can’t breathe, we’re going to die, we’re—”

Yunho kisses him.

“Argle,” Changmin says, “mmf,” and he almost cries with relief when Yunho drags him nearer and forces his tongue past Changmin’s lips, making the kiss deep and hot and messy. Changmin twines his fingers through Yunho’s hair, desperate not to lose the embrace even as he abandons the last shreds of his self-control. His heartbeat boosts like a jump jet, his cock springing up to beg for attention.

Yunho pulls away, gasping. Changmin wails in protest and wrenches at his hair. “Why didn’t you do that sooner? Why didn’t you do that before we got on this fucking plane? Oh, never mind—just kiss me again.”

They grab for each other. Changmin lets Yunho shove him back against the window. He’s trapped and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced; no, _Yunho_ is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, and Changmin keens into the kiss, hungry and demanding. As if from far away he hears the flight check and safety drill, the clunk as the aeroplane disengages from the dock, the distant rumble of the engines as the plane manoeuvres onto the secondary runway.

Panic breaks through his daze. Changmin turns his head, his lips stinging, his breathing ragged. He looks out of the window in time to see the wing flaps raise and lower. “Shit,” Changmin moans. “I can’t do this. I want to get off.”

“I can help with that.” Yunho presses his palm against Changmin’s cock and rubs.

Changmin jerks in response. “Not that kind of get off!”

“Let me change your mind.” Yunho slides from his seat and folds himself up on the floor, kneeling between Changmin’s legs.

“What are you _doing_?” Changmin half shrieks as Yunho pops the button on his jeans and yanks the zip down.

“You can’t tell?” Yunho gives him a disappointed look. “Try again.”

“Oh God, no,” says Changmin, bracing himself as the plane bumps over the tarmac. He throws frantic glances across at the passengers on the other side of the aisle, but they seem to be engaged in reading the in-flight magazine or fiddling with the options on the entertainment console.

“Oh yum, _yes_ ,” Yunho purrs and takes Changmin’s cock into his mouth.

Changmin makes a strangled noise. Shame and excitement hammer at him. He grabs the flight blanket and throws it over Yunho’s head, hoping that it’ll become some kind of magical invisibility cloak. Yunho makes a ‘don’t interrupt when I’ve got my mouth full’ sound, shoves the blanket aside, and goes right back to work.

“Yunho,” Changmin whines, squirming in the confines of his seat, “Yunho, stop. Don’t stop. Oh shit. You’re confusing me. Why are you so good at this? Don’t tell me, I don’t care. Just.... just don’t stop.”

Yunho hums a little in response. Changmin goes cross-eyed and thrusts up hard into the warmth of Yunho’s mouth.

A stewardess pauses beside them. “Excuse me, sir,” she says with a polite smile, “please fasten your seatbelt.”

Changmin almost dies of horror. “Oh God!”

“Mm.” Yunho lets Changmin’s cock slide from his mouth with a wet sound. “Buckle up, Changminnie. Let me help you.”

“Oh fuck.” Changmin closes his eyes as Yunho clicks the metal tabs together and tightens the seatbelt, darting teasing little licks at the head of Changmin’s cock during the whole procedure. “Oh fucking fuck,” Changmin babbles. “Please stop. You’ll get us arrested.”

“It’s okay,” Yunho says in soothing tones. He gives Changmin’s erection another lingering kiss then settles into his own seat. “Look, I’ll put my seatbelt on, too. Now we’re both safe.”

“You’re insane,” Changmin gasps as Yunho dances his fingers from the base of Changmin’s cock up to the tip. “People can see. Oh God, they’ll film us on their phones and upload it to YouTube.” Perversely, the idea is thrilling rather than horrifying. His cock swells, gets even harder.

“No one’s going to film us,” Yunho says, slicking pre-come over the pad of his thumb. He circles his hand around Changmin’s straining erection and tugs, down and up, down and up. “The captain told everyone to switch off all electrical devices until we’re airborne.”

The reminder of take-off makes Changmin whimper. “I hate flying. I hate it. Oh God. You said you were going to cure me.”

“I’m going to get you through this.” Yunho leans closer and licks the curvature of Changmin’s ear. “Trust me,” he adds, then dips down into Changmin’s lap again.

The plane comes to a halt. Changmin opens his eyes and stares at the TV screen in front of him, which is showing the stretch of empty runway lying ahead of the plane. He can see his own face reflected in the screen, his eyes wide and his hair dishevelled and his lips parted, and then he refocuses his gaze and sees the runway again and it’s too much, he can’t stand it, and he buries his fingers in Yunho’s hair and shoves him down hard.

“Please,” Changmin begs, “please.”

Yunho growls and relaxes his throat and takes Changmin right down to the root.

“Fuck oh fuck oh fuck.” Changmin fists one hand into Yunho’s shirt and feels the solid warmth of his shoulders beneath, and it’s this almost as much as the glorious, heavenly suction around his cock that enables Changmin to flick the switch from terror to lust. He screws his eyes shut and bangs his head back against the seat, the belt tight around his waist and Yunho’s hands splayed on his thighs holding him down, and Changmin gives himself over to the sensation as the captain murmurs something over the intercom and the note from the engines begins to build.

“Oh,” Changmin gasps when the plane lurches forward; “ _Oh_ ,” when Yunho curls his tongue against the sensitive underside of his cock; “Oh shit,” when the acceleration presses him back and the whine from the engines vibrates through the cabin; “Oh _fuck_ , Yunho,” as he holds Yunho’s head down in his lap and fucks his mouth as the front wheels leave the runway and the plane tilts back, and there’s a frantic spiralling dizziness alternately dragging at him and lifting him, and Changmin knows he’s breaking the laws of gravity but he doesn’t care, not while Yunho is driving him so wantonly towards orgasm.

The engines scream. Changmin screams. Everything turns upside down.

*

“How do you feel?”

Changmin opens his eyes. “Like someone gave me the best blowjob of my life.”

Yunho smiles. He looks surprisingly bashful. “Anything else?”

“Um.” Changmin glances around, conscious of the low thrumming of the engines and the lack of panpipe music and the slightly dry atmosphere. He looks out of the window and sees clouds beneath the aeroplane wing, sees the expanse of changing blue. “We’re flying,” he says, and waits for the familiar clutch of panic and nausea. It rises just a little, but he beats it back with a few deep breaths. “Yunho. We’re flying.”

Yunho puts his chin on Changmin’s shoulder and gazes out of the window. “Yes, we are.”

“We’re flying and I feel okay.” Delight makes Changmin buoyant. He turns his head, catches sight of the passengers seated across the aisle, and feels pole-axed by horrified embarrassment as memory slams into him. “Oh God. I feel okay because you sucked me off.”

“Distraction.” Yunho’s laughter tickles against his neck. “It always comes down to distraction.”

Changmin cringes. “You sucked me off in front of all these people!”

“They’re hypnotised,” Yunho says. “They won’t remember anything.”

“You hypnotised the whole plane?”

“Just the passengers. And the crew. Not the actual aeroplane, because it’s not sentient.” Yunho sits up, retrieves the blanket and shakes it out. “I was just going to hypnotise you, but I thought it’d be more fun this way.”

Changmin exhales, feeling rather wobbly. “So you hypnotised the rest of the plane instead. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Oh, I excel at grand romantic gestures when I’m with the right person.” Yunho drapes the blanket over them and relaxes against Changmin with a deep sigh. “You’re not half as difficult as you think you are, Shim Changmin.”

“And you’re not too shoddy for a celebrity guru,” Changmin admits.

Yunho cuddles closer and makes a pleased sound. “Air travel always makes me sleepy. Wake me up in an hour and a half.”

Changmin stares. “Why?”

Yunho gives him a slow smile. “Because we still have to land.”


End file.
